Sorrow Floats
by buffyaddict
Summary: Sam and Dean struggle to save a missing boy. The aftermath of the hunt threatens to drown Sam and Dean tries his best to help. This is a oneshot with plenty of angst. Limp!Sam and snarky Dean.


In another time, another place, Sam might take the time to pick the lock. But there's no time left and he doesn't think twice when his shoulder connects with the back door. The wood buckles the first time, splinters the second, and then they're in. Pain flares in his shoulder like a star and sparks all the way down his arm. His brain registers the pain, catologues it, and saves it for later. Now isn't the time.

_Now. _

_Hurry. _

They follow the beam from Dean's flashlight, work their way across the first floor. Three old claw-footed tubs sit in what might have been a living room in better days. They're filled with various levels of brackish water. Dean swears, kicks at one of the porcelain monstrosities. Sam stumbles down a hallway, yelling the boy's name. Panic bleeds from each syllable and he thinks, _should have come sooner, should have known._ His hands butterfly against the walls, searching for doors, for rooms, for hope in the thick gloom. Finally, he connects with a glass doorknob and it turns easily in his hand. He screams for Dean and Dean comes running, boots pounding on the dusty wood floor. The sound of Dean's boots matches the drum beat in Sam's head.

The flashlight cuts through the darkness, reveals they're in a bathroom. The thin beam jerks around the room, from the shattered mirror above an old sink to the tub.

There's a change in how Dean's boots sound, but the noise in Sam's head stays the same. There's a wet sound, the sound of rubber soles in water.

The tub.

It's filled with water. Sam doesn't want to look but he has to. Pale limbs beneath the water. A pale face with wide eyes. Brown hair halos around the boy's head.

Sam stares, mouth working, but there are no words, nothing he can say to make this better. Dean's voice is far away, it's been filtered through gauze. "--am? Sammy?"

Sam's eyes drift from the dead boy in the tub (_David, his name is David_) to the movement in the corner. Andy's sitting on the lid of the toilet seat. "You tried, man," he says, playing with a thread at the end of one sleeve. He glances down at his chest and pulls at his sweatshirt. Rorschachs of blood bloom across the fabric. "It's not your fault."

Sam can feel the weight of Adam's empty eyes on him. It is his fault. It is.

o o o

When Dean comes into the room carrying the bag of groceries, Sam's cross-legged on the floor. He's surrounded by an ocean of papers--print-outs, photocopies--and empty coffee cups.

Dean sets the bag down and lifts an eyebrow. He gestures to the detritus circling Sam. "What's all this?"

Sam taps at the laptop keyboard. He frowns at the screen and says, "I had a vision." He doesn't look at Dean.

Dean sinks onto the edge of the bed. "A vision? Are you sure?" Dean regrets the question as soon as its out of his mouth. Of course Sam's sure. But something shifts in his stomach, a sense of foreboding surfaces that wasn't there a minute ago.

Sam nods, eyes still on the screen.

Dean clears his throat. "How long has it been?" He thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear Sam say it. Sam hasn't had a vision since they killed the Yellow Eyed Demon. So why now, after more than a year?

"I know, Dean," Sam says, voice low. "It's been a long time. I don't know why it happened. I just know I need to...I need to save this kid." Sam finally lifts his head and stares past Dean. His expression is pained defiance. "I can do it."

Dean holds up a hand. "Dude. I never said you couldn't." He sighs, reaches into the bag and pulls out two sandwiches packaged in triangular plastic containers. He offers the turkey and cheese to Sam. "What did you see?"

Sam ignores the sandwich and rubs the back of his neck. He exhales, blowing the bangs out of his eyes. "There's a Lamian demon who's been killing kids. I think she's got a little boy named Adam."

o o o

The first time he saw Jessica's ghost was outside Toledo, Ohio. Okay, not really her ghost. He never believed it was her ghost. After all, there were only ashes buried back in Palo Alto. He thought her image was just the shape of his guilt and regret.

The night he killed Jake and Dean killed the demon, Sam sees her again. She doesn't look quite so ethereal this time. She's sitting on the edge of his bed in her slip, the long gash across her abdomen leaking blood down her thighs and onto the bedspread. She looks at him with that crooked smile and says, "God, Sam, did you have to shoot him that many times?"

Her smile still has the power to squeeze the air out of his lungs, and he's too stunned for fear. "You're not really here," he manages. But part of him still _hopes_.

She pats his leg and nods. "No, babe. I'm not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is you shot Jake seven times."

Sam licks his lips, listens to the sound of the shower run in the bathroom. "Jake killed me," Sam says, even though that's not the reason he killed Jake. He knows Jake was manipulated into killing, the same as Ava. No, he killed Jake for Dean. Because when Jake twisted the knife in Sam's spine, he was killing Dean at the same time.

Sam makes his way to Dean's duffel and pulls out the EMF meter. He turns it on. There's isn't so much as a whisper. He brings it back to the bed and holds it out toward Jess. There's nothing. Jess rolls her eyes. "Are you ready to tell me the truth?" she asks.

Sam can't quite look at her. He prayed to see her again for months and now that she's here he can't look at her. "I slept with somebody else," he whispers and the words burn like embers in his throat.

Jess flops back on the bed, looks up at the ceiling. "Sam. I'm dead. I don't really expect you to stay faithful at this point." She props herself up on her elbows. "Did you love me when we were together?"

Sam nods.

"Did you sleep with anyone else back then?"

He shakes his head because he can't speak. The fire in his throat has spread to his chest and _oh fuck, it_ burns.

"Then it doesn't matter, Sam. There's nothing to forgive."

Now Sam forces the words out like hot stones, through the pain. "There is. I didn't warn you. I could have--"

"Sam." Hearing her voice again is like redemption. "I don't think I would have believed you. Not at first. And even if I would have, he would have found another way to kill me. So stop blaming yourself." She shifts on the bed and crosses her ankles. The bottoms of her feet are dirty. "If you want to blame yourself about something, pick Jake."

The door to the bathroom swings open and Dean sticks his head out. "Dude. Who the hell are you talking to?"

Sam nearly jumps and shoots a look back to his bed. It's empty. He blinks at Dean, just barely pulls on a smile. "Nobody. I...was just thinking. Aloud." He grinds out a weak chuckle. "Sorry. I think I'm going a little stir crazy."

Dean watches him for a long minute, his expression thoughtful. "Okay then. Let me get changed and we'll blow this joint, get a couple of beers. Sound good?"

Jess is beside Sam now and leans in close to whisper. She smells like smoke and lilacs. "We both know you're going to save Dean, so quite worrying about it. I know you, Sam. Once you put your mind to something, there's no stopping you. That's one of the things I love about you."

Sam swallows. She said _love_, not _loved_. Oh fuck. He's going crazy.

"I'll help you figure this out. You trust me, don't you?" Sam can feel her hand on his arm. He doesn't want her to let go. He wants to run screaming from the room.

"Sam?" Dean prods.

Sam nods, but his head feels too heavy and he doesn't know if he's answering Jess or Dean.

o o o

Dean might look stupid. He might act stupid. Occasionally. Just for fun. But he's _not_ stupid. And okay, Sam's not _saying_ he's stupid, but he's not saying a lot of things. The kid's gone quieter than a church lately and Dean doesn't know whether to be pissed or worried. He settles for a combination of the two.

Within the past five months he's caught Sam talking to himself half a dozen times. At first he thinks its some kind of practical joke, like Sam's just waiting to bust his balls over it and burst out laughing. But whenever Dean mentions it, Sam goes shifty-eyed and waves off Dean's concern like it's a fly. He says, _I was just watching TV_, or _I was on the phone_, or _I just asking the maid for more towels because you're such a fucking pig_. Dean's not sure why Sam's lying, he just knows that he _is_.

So that leaves two options. Sam's talking to ghosts or Sam's talking to himself. Dean's not really impressed with either choice. He's been salting the doors and windows and if it is a ghost, it's a fucking gold medal gymnast to get inside the room. Plus, he's taken to leaving the EMF meter on under his pillow and it never makes a peep. So that means Sam's talking to himself. And that thought makes Dean's stomach curl around the edges. No way is Sam crazy. No. Way. But then again, hasn't he felt crazy some days? Back when Dad laid the Big Damn Secret on him? Or when Sam fucking _died_? He'd been hanging on by a string--a thread. _Less_ than a thread. He'd been barely hanging on at all. So what makes him think Sam's above a freak out? If nothing else, doesn't dying earn you the right to a little bit of a freak out now and then? But freaking out isn't the same as talking to thin air. Is it?

Dean thinks of all the nightmares and the visions. He tries to remember how many times Sam's been bashed in the head over the last few years. Turns out it's a fucking spectacular number. He starts thinking of tumors and brain damage and that path takes a couple of jogs that leads him right into psychosis and schizophrenia.

Dean watches Sam and Sam pretends not to notice. They both smile and nod and lie.

o o o

The shit hits the fan after Sam kills the crossroads demon. They're celebrating at Bobby's, and even though Dean's pretty much drunk off his ass, he still notices when Sam gets up to leave.

Dean follows Sam and listens while he has a serious conversation with the porch railing. "I just wanted to say thanks," Sam says. "I couldn't have done this without you."

Dean pushes through the screen door and leans in the doorway. " Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?"

Sam whirls around, his face all _who, me?_ and it would be funny--it would be fucking _hilarious_--if it weren't for the fact that Sam's going nutso. Sam's eyes slide to the empty space on the porch and then back to Dean. "Um. What? No. Not really." He shrugs, slips his hands into his pockets, and smiles.

"Who were you talking to?" Dean asks. "And don't lie. You've been doing it for months. The talking and the lying. You think you're all smooth and clever and shit, but you can't fool me, Sam. Not anymore."

Sam glances back toward the railing as if he's looking for some kind of sign. Then he leans against the railing and looks at Dean. "I was talking to Dad," he says. He won't meet Dean's gaze and his mouth twists into something that wants to be a smile but isn't. "And yeah, Dean. I know he's dead. And he's not a ghost. We both saw him leave that cemetery. But..." Sam shrugs and he abruptly turns his back to Dean. "I still see him."

Dean works hard to keep his face neutral, his voice steady. Shit. _Shit_. He has a vision of Sam in little padded room screaming about ghosts and talking to the walls. "So...that's who you've been talking to all this time?"

"Once in a while. I don't see him much. I was just freaking out about how to save you and...he came. Usually it's Jess." Sam's hands come out of his pockets and grasp the railing. He leans forward, head down. "Sometimes it's Andy."

Dean's control slips. "Jesus Christ, Sam. How many ghosts are you talking to?"

Sam's answer is a mumble.

Dean moves next to his brother, rests his beer on the railing. "I didn't hear you."

"I said, I'm not talking to ghosts."

"You don't know that," Dean says and he knows he's just trying to convince himself.

"The EMF--"

"Maybe it's broken."

"It's not."

"Maybe it's, you know, some kind of curse or something. Maybe you've been whammied."

Sam shakes his head. "I shot Andy with rocksalt the first time I saw him and nothing happened." Off Dean's look, Sam continues, "You were getting food. All Andy did was flip me off and ask if I had any pot."

"There's got to be an explanation," Dean insists.

"There is," Sam agrees. "I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Dean growls. "So you can quit that song and dance right now." But that song is getting hard to ignore.

"Dean. I was dead. There's got to be some kind of..." Sam trails off, chips at a sliver of loose paint with a thumb nail.

"Some kind of what?" Dean demands. "Consequences? Repercussions?"

"Side effects," Sam says simply.

Dean can't believe what he's hearing. He stares hard at Sam, willing him to shut up before the urge to make him shut up grows too strong. "Do you have heartburn and vaginal bleeding, Sam? _Those_ are side effects. _Not_ seeing imaginary dead people."

Sam's face goes blank and shuttered and just like that there's a fucking chasm bigger than the Grand Canyon yawning between them. Dean moves closer but it does nothing to bridge the gap. "Sam. Look. I didn't mean--" But Dean doesn't get a chance to say what he did or didn't mean because Sam's already got the door open and he doesn't look back.

o o o

Dean spends the next few days tiptoeing around Sam's prickly mood. He keeps trying to apologize--not with words of course--and when Sam accepts the cup of pansy mocha bullshit from a Starbucks knock-off, Dean knows things are better. A week later Dean catches Sam talking to an empty bathroom stall in a gas station restroom outside Omaha and his expression flips from annoyance to worry. Dean tilts his head toward the stall. "Who is it?"

Sam balls up a paper towel, makes a two point shot into the trash can. "It was Andy. He says hi, by the way."

"Uh huh." Dean casts a surreptious look over his shoulder on the way out.

"Don't bother," Sam says with a thin smile. "He's gone."

Dean's not fooled by the smile. He can see how red and watery Sam's eyes are. He can read the sorrow.

o o o

It's not like he sees them all the time. They don't ask him to right wrongs or avenge deaths or anything like that. They're just a reminder he's not alone. Not that he's ever alone anyway, because he has Dean. But sometimes it's nice to talk about what it feels like to be dead. Because that's not something Dean can help him with. Not that Sam remembers what it was like, exactly. But sometimes, when he has nightmares and the hunts don't seem to stop, he forgets he's alive. Sometimes he remembers, like when Dean cracks a joke or he feels the sun on his face or Jess smiles at him. _I'm alive. This is what it's like to feel alive._ He closes his eyes and thinks, _I'm okay. This is my life_. Once, when he opens his eyes Andy's watching him with a wistful expression. "I miss it," he says.

"Being alive?" Sam asks.

Andy nods. "And getting high. I could handle this whole death thing a hell of a lot better if I had my bong, you know?"

Sam gives him a look. "I thought you weren't really here."

Andy smiles impishly. "Then maybe you're the one who misses my bong."

It's not just the ghosts who come. So do the tears. When he least expects it. When he's brushing his teeth. When he's in the shower. When he's pumping gas. He's careful not to let Dean see. But he can't hide it from Andy or Jess. It should be easy to hide the truth from people who aren't even there, but it's not. Sam leans his head against the passenger side window and cries, hot tears needling his skin and he thinks, _it should have been me. It should have been me_. All those people. All those special kids and he's the only one left. He's the last one standing. And it's not right, it's not fair, because he's _tired_ of standing, and he doesn't feel special, he doesn't feel _anything_ except sad and he just wants to lie down. He stares in through the window and Jess is sitting in his seat, her hand pressed against the glass, her forehead matching the placement of is. He should feel better. She should help. But nothing does.

From across the lot he hears the chime of the gas station door and Sam starts cleaning the window. Then he moves to the back windshield. Dean walks up juggling two cans of soda and a big bag of Skittles. "Hey. You don't have to do that, man."

Sam smiles, eyes on the empty car. "Sure I do. You took too long and I was bored off my ass."

Dean grins, opens the driver's side door. "Next time I'll make sure I take long enough for you to get her washed."

o o o

When Dean unlocks the door, Sam's cross-legged on the floor. He's surrounded by an ocean of papers, fingers tapping at the laptop. "I had a vision," Sam says, without looking up. Dark circles ring his eyes, his hair is matted and unkempt.

Dean sinks onto the edge of the bed, his eyes searching Sam's face. "Tell me about it."

"There's a little boy. I think his name is Adam." He looks up at Dean, and his eyes are wide and pleading. "We have to save him, Dean."

o o o

The door is one step up from cardboard and Dean breaks it down with a single well-placed kick. His eyes take in the cramped bathroom, the cracked tile, the crooked light fixture. The shower curtain is pulled closed and Dean's hand trembles as he yanks it open. He's barely aware of the puddle beneath his feet, of the screaming in his ears. He's screaming a single word over and over and it's a mantra and a prayer and a curse all at the same time.

The tub.

It's filled with water. Dean doesn't want to look but he has to. Pale limbs beneath the water. A pale face with wide green eyes. Brown hair halos around the head. Sam's head. Dean pulls him out of the water and onto the floor and Sam's lips are blue and Dean can't think. His brain has shut down but his arms don't seem to notice because they're pushing at Sam's chest and tilting his head back. He starts CPR and counts. He needs to call 911. He needs to go back in time and not leave Sam alone, he needs to find David Fisher alive. He needs to scream until his vocal cords snap and he chokes on blood because this is _Sam_ beneath his hands, it's _Sam_ and he's not breathing and he's not going to lose him again. Let Sam be crazy, let him be lost, just let him _live_. Dean knows he's a selfish bastard but at this moment he doesn't care what Sam wants. He only knows what he wants, and right now, at the very top of the list is for Sam to take a fucking breath.

Dean counts and does compressions and he breathes into Sam and his jeans are wet from kneeling in water but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't know his hands are shaking or that he's crying. All he knows is Sam has to come back.

o o o

He pulls David out of the tub and the boy's feet make a wet _smack_ against the floor. Sam bends over him and starts the compressions, but David's chest is slippery. Dean's trying to pull him off and Sam doesn't understand why because he can _save_ him, _he can _save_ him_. Andy's kneeling beside him and he's crying. He keeps saying that David is already dead, that he's been dead for hours, for _hours_ and it's too late. But Andy's a fucking ghost, he's a fucking _figment_ and just because Sam's crazy doesn't mean he can't save this kid, this little boy that never hurt anyone and who still has his fucking baby teeth.

Dean's got him around the waist now and he's trying to bodily pull him away, but Sam won't go, he _won't_ because if he didn't come back from the dead to do _better_, to make up for everything he did wrong (_everyone he let down_) the first time, then why the fuck did he come back? This is his chance. He saved _Dean_. He saved his brother. He can certainly save a little boy.

He _can_.

And he breathes, but nothing happens. He's pounding on David's chest now and he can feel (_hear_) the snap of a rib but it's a small price to pay for life. Such a small price. But now it's getting harder to breathe, he can barely pull air into his own lungs, much less David's. Sam gasps, still counting, shaking Dean off when he notices the boy's eyes on him. The eyes don't blink, don't see. They were blue once but now they look cloudy. Empty. The emptiness spills out of David's eyes and it circles Sam's arms, his chest, his head. It squeezes the remaining air from his lungs and forces him onto the floor. The emptiness is a white wall now, and it rushes like a train, bearing down fast. The last thing Sam hears is the sound of Dean's voice in his ear saying, _Sammy, it's too late_. Sam doesn't know if Dean's talking about him or David.

o o o

When Sam comes to he's leaning against the side of the tub, head between his knees. David's still there, and he's still dead. "I tried so hard," Sam chokes. "I tried."

Dean's next to him, one arm around Sam's shoulders. "I know, Sam. I know you did. We just...we didn't have enough time."

"What's the point of the visions?" Sam's voice breaks. "What's the point if I can never get there in time?" He presses his forehead against his knee. David's face is seared to the back of his eyelids. He'll never get it off.

o o o

Later that night they find the Lamian demon. Dean's got silver bullets and Sam's got a silver dagger. She watches them come with flat lizard eyes and a grin that's all teeth. The lines at the back of her neck look like scars, but Sam's read the books, he's done the research. They're gills. He walks right in front of Dean and literally throws himself at the demon, knife flashing up and down, in and out. When he's finally done, he's stabbed her fifteen times. Sam's slick with blood, hers as well as his.

"I could have shot you," Dean grates. "Don't you ever walk in front of me like that. Not _ever_."

Sam wipes the blade on the side of his jeans.

Jake leans against a tree, arms folded across his chest. He smirks at Sam. "I don't know, Sam. Think you stabbed her enough? I mean, come on now. You didn't even cut through her spine."

Sam glowers. "Fuck off."

Dean's eyes narrow. "What was that?"

Sam heads for the car. "I wasn't talking to you." His hand aches from clenching the knife so hard and for so long, but he can't let go. "This job blows," he says, and for once he's too angry for tears.

Dean can't disagree.

o o o

Sam's chest heaves and he chokes, gags. Dean immediately turns Sam's head and he vomits up a trickle of water. Great, tearing coughs rip out of him, and Dean props Sam up, holds him steady. Gradually, the coughing tapers off and Sam leans his head against Dean's shoulder. Dean runs his fingers through Sam's wet hair, grateful for the feel of Sam's breath on his cheek. He's too relieved--too frightened--to be angry.

Sam whispers something and Dean leans in closer. "What, Sammy? What was that?"

Sam's eyes slips closed and he starts to shiver. "You're always bringing me back." Sam's voice shatters. "And. I'm. I'm sorry."

Dean doesn't even hesitate. "I'm not," he says firmly. "I'm not."

o o o

He comes into the room with a bag of groceries. "Hey Sam," Dean says brightly. "I brought you something to eat."

Sam's sitting cross-legged on the floor. He's surrounded by a sea of paper and he's busying typing on the laptop. "I had a vision," he says without looking up.

Dean lowers himself to the floor next to Sam. He lifts one hand to touch Sam's shoulder, hesitates, lowers his arm. "What was it about?" he asks, but he already knows.

Sam lifts his head. "A little boy named Adam," he says. "A Lamian demon has him." He taps the laptop. "And I think I've got a lead on where he is."

Dean nods and this time he does put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "That's great, Sam." He jerks a thumb toward the grocery bag on the bed. "You want something to eat while we research?"

Sam smiles. "That depends. What do you have?"

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "Turkey and cheese?"

Sam pats Dean's arm. "Sounds good to me." He turns back to the laptop and scrolls down the screen, forehead creased in concentration.

Dean reaches into the bag and pulls out the sandwich. He hands it to Sam and Sam throws him a quick grin. "Thanks."

"Yeah. Sure." Dean leans against the side of the bed and unwraps his own sandwich. He takes a bite, but he's not hungry.

o o o

Around ten o'clock Dean says he's going to play some pool at the bar down the road. He asks Sam to come along, but Sam declines. He's tired, and besides, he wants to find out as much as he can about the Lamian demon. And Adam Fisher.

At ten-thirty Sam's head starts to hurt. It hurts a lot lately. Dean left him a glass of water and some aspirin. He swallows down the pills and heads to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and washes his face. He tosses the wet wash cloth over the side of the fiberglass shower door. Massaging the tight muscles in his neck Sam pulls on a clean t-shirt and kicks off his jeans, lets them fall to the floor.

He gets into bed and sighs. The light from the lamp is brighter than he'd like, but he likes to leave it on for Dean. He rolls onto his side and pats his pillow a few times, trying to get comfortable.

The bed shifts and he feels Jess sit down beside him. "Hey babe," she says.

Sam smiles. Everything will be okay. Jess is here. Dean will be back in a little while. And tomorrow they'll save David Fisher.

o o o

Bobby's at his desk watching the video feed when Dean comes in. Bobby, stretches, yawns, and hands Dean a beer. Dean takes it, pops the cap and takes a long pull. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and asks, "Well?"

Bobby rubs his eyes, yawns again. "Looks like he's asleep."

Dean pulls a chair over and watches his brother on the screen. "Thanks for your help," Dean says softly. "I just…I didn't know what to do." He taps the side of the bottle. "I don't think I can do this by myself. Not after he tried to. After he tried to..."

"Then I guess it's a good think you don't have to," Bobby interjects. "And you don't have to thank me. You know if there's something I can do to help Sam I'm gonna do it."

"I know. And I…I really appreciate it, Bobby." Dean rocks back in the chair, props his feet up on the edge of Bobby's desk. "Do you think he'll ever get past this?" Dean closes his eyes. "Is he really going to spend the rest of his life trying to save a dead kid?"

Bobby shrugs. "I don't know, Dean. It's not really up to us anymore."

Dean swings his legs off the desk and the chair rocks back onto all four feet. "Did he take the pills at least?"

"Yeah. Not that long after you left."

Dean bites at his lower lip. He tells himself that's something. If Bobby's contact keeps providing them with the medication, maybe Sam can finally stop treading water and move on.

o o o

Sam stares up at the ceiling. Blank sheets of paper cover the carpeting. "You've got to get out of here," Andy says. He's lying next to Sam on the floor.

"I'm waiting for Dean," Sam says absently. There's a water stain on the ceiling. It's in the shape of something familiar. Nebraska. Or a bathtub.

"I don't mean the room," Andy says with an eye roll, "I mean this." He gestures at the papers. "The kid is dead, dude. Just like the rest of us."

Sam shakes his head. "No. I had a vision. He's—"

"She drowned him in a bathtub." Andy's voice is gentle.

Sam concentrates on the sound of Andy's voice, not the words. "I didn't think I'd miss you this much," he says. "I wish I could have saved you."

"What can I say," Andy says with a grin, "I'm a likeable guy."

"Yeah…not so much," Ava says from the bed. She's messaging the back of her neck. "You're an annoying pothead. Andyou whine."

Andy sits up. "Don't even get me started," he glares. "You're so short and yet you're such a _gigantic_ bitch. How is that even possible?" He gives her a quick fuck-off salute. "Thanks for killing me, by the way." He scowls at her. "You're just jealous Sam knew me first."

"Oh right." She rolls her eyes. "You keep telling yourself that, dickweed."

"Shut up," Sam says. "Can I have five seconds of peace, please? I need to figure out what to do about David, all right?"

The room goes silent and Sam looks around. Andy and Ava are gone. But he's not alone.

"Sam." John's voice is the sound of a wool blanket, rough and warm at the same time. "Your brother's worried about you."

Sam chews at a fingernail. "I know. And I'm sorry. But I've got to help this kid, Dad. I can't stop thinking about him."

John chuckles softly. "I guess I know what it's like to be a little obsessed."

Sam snorts. "A _little_?"

Now John laughs. "No comment."

Sam squints at one of the pages of his research but for some reason he can't read it. He blinks and throws it down in disgust. "Shit."

"I'm proud of you," John says softly. "I always was."

Sam swallows thickly and his eyes sting. "You're not real," Sam says.

"I know that, son. But you are."

Sam looks up, but John is gone. He's alone at last and he doesn't know if he should consider the silence a blessing or not. He sighs wearily and rubs at his face. His fingernails are chewed down to the quick. There's dried blood along the edge of his left thumb nail.

He organizes his books and papers into stacks and waits. Dean will be back soon and then they can go find David.


End file.
